A few seconds later an email with an attachment arrives in my inbox from an unknown sender and Jason’s face pops back onto the screen. “Dr. Jones suggests you print the list out immediately as it will disappear in exactly fifteen minutes.”
I open up the file, check my printer for paper, and then hit send. “Done. Thank you.”
“Is there anything else I can do for you?”
“Not now, but can I call you later?”
“You may. I look forward to speaking to you again, Samantha Russo. Who do I bill for this time?”
“Suds and Sam Detective Agency.” Internally, I moan. I hope this call pans out.
“You’re welcome. Goodbye and good luck with your missing dead person’s case.” The avatar disappears off my screen as I shake my head.
Damn, that AI program is so freakish. I swear it knows everything about everyone.
Oh well, time for some old-fashioned research. I find a yellow highlighter and begin checking numbers. Well looky here. Hunk-o-rama? Why would a mobster keep a famous strip club on speed dial?
Suddenly, the scrapbook Martha sent me makes more sense. In all the images, Gallo has handsome men at her side and not her husband. Perhaps she uses a male escort service. If so, maybe I can find out if any of the dancers have recently disappeared.
I call the number on the printout but get an answering machine. “If you’d like to book a party, press one, if you know your party’s extension…”
Damn. I push zero but get hung up on. Life was a lot easier for a private detective before automation.
Maybe Suds is right and no one was murdered. Am I imagining all this because I miss being an FBI investigator? Always before, I’ve trusted my gut but this case is different.
If he was here, I’d bounce ideas off from him but I need to leave him be to do his bodyguard thing. I could text him, I suppose, except he’s not particularly happy about me working this caper and I don’t want to piss him off again.
Besides, I have nothing real to report except Gallo likes to call a certain stripper place which would explain how she always has a sexy man with her, and not her husband. While unusual, it isn’t anything I can go to the police with.
Argh!
Done being frustrated, I work on the rich-cheating-housewife-of-New-Jersey caper. Dana sent us phone records and installed a GPS tracker app. If she’s cheating, not just sexting, I will find out.
Downstairs, the door slams. No doubt Joey is taking Kimmy for her daily walk.
Thank God, I’m free at last.
Holster? Check. Gun? Check. Jacket open? Check.
I jump up, dash down the stairs, and leave a note on his door. Then I run home, not stopping until I get inside my building. Standing outside the empty tailor shop, I catch my breath and check my mail.
The jackhammering seems to be done with but now, as I climb the stairs, I wonder about the integrity of our building. Were these cracks in the wall always here and I didn’t notice?
Worried, I call the landlord but he’s away so I call the city and get put on hold. I’m pretty sure whatever they’re doing next door is illegal. They can’t cause structural damage to my apartment, can they?
While I’m on the phone, Catrina pads down the spiral staircase, glares at me, and puts her tail in the air as if to say, screw you.
“C’mon now, kitty. It wasn’t my fault. I tried to come home.”
“Meow.” She sets her ass down in front of the fridge and stares.
I’m beginning to think, like Superman, she has see-through vision.
While I ponder her alien race, my phone rings and it’s Uncle Vinny. “I thought you wuz supposed to stay at Joey’s.”
I walk to my front windows and stare down at the sidewalk. When a big Italian dude waves up at me, I close the verticals.
“You’re not, by any chance, having me followed?” Not having x-ray vision, I wander back to the refrigerator, open the door, and gasp at the science experiment that used to be a loaf of bread.
